Chaplin (2011)– Laughter as a Disguise for Hunger

-Atreyo Lahiri

Anindo Banerjee’s Chaplin (2011) is an unflinching yet deeply human portrayal of life on the margins. It follows Bangshi (Rudranil Ghosh), a man who survives by donning the bowler hat, cane, and moustache of Charlie Chaplin, bringing brief moments of joy to others while his own life is steeped in hardship. Beneath the greasepaint lies a man whose dreams have been stalled by the cruel arithmetic of poverty.

From the outset, Banerjee makes it clear that Chaplin is not about mimicry or nostalgia, it is about survival. Bangshi’s performances are consumed by middle and upper-class audiences who laugh without realising the man before them will go home to an empty kitchen. The film’s Kolkata is not the postcard city of festivals and heritage buildings; it is a raw, lived-in space of narrow alleys, crumbling facades, flickering tube lights, and the constant buzz of survival.

The class divide runs like a fault line through the story. Bangshi entertains the privileged but remains excluded from their world. Banerjee contrasts the colour and noise of birthday parties with the muted tones of Bangshi’s home life, underscoring how joy is a luxury not everyone can afford. Gender dynamics emerge too, as Bangshi shoulders the traditional expectation of a father, to provide, to protect, to smile for the sake of his child, no matter the toll.

One of the film’s most searing moments comes when Bangshi and his young son sit together for dinner. Their meal is nothing more than stale bread soaked in water. To shield his son from the sting of hunger, Bangshi playfully calls it mangsho (meat curry) and encourages him to eat. The boy smiles, perhaps half-believing it, while the father hides the ache in his eyes. This scene captures the emotional essence of the film: the desperate ingenuity of love in the face of scarcity. It is a moment that stays with you, not because of melodrama, but because of its quiet authenticity.

Rudranil Ghosh’s performance is extraordinary in its restraint. His Bangshi is not a tragic figure begging for pity, but a man doing what he must to endure. In his Chaplin act, he channels physical comedy with precision, but between performances, his body seems to carry the weight of the city’s dust, debt, and disillusionment. His silences often speak louder than his words.

Banerjee’s direction borrows from Chaplin’s own philosophy, to blend humour and heartbreak in the same frame, but refuses to romanticise poverty. The humour is never at the expense of the character’s dignity; it is instead a coping mechanism, a way to reclaim small pieces of joy from a world that offers so few.

Chaplin is ultimately a film about the human cost of invisibility. It reminds us that the people who make us laugh may be enduring lives far removed from the stages they perform on. In its quiet, unassuming way, it forces the audience to confront uncomfortable questions about inequality, empathy, and the price of survival in a city that celebrates art but forgets the artist.

It ends without grand resolutions, because in reality, men like Bangshi do not get cinematic endings, they get up the next day, put on the paint, and perform again. And perhaps that is the film’s most powerful truth.

All posters are courtesy of the rightful owners and we don't own any these pictures. All copyrights are reserved.